


The Food Here Sucks

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [42]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, Drama, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Sam Winchester, Post-Series, Protective Dean Winchester, Slow Dancing, Squabbling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 12:14:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2428310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is trapped within a group of judgmental gay men at a work related function.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Food Here Sucks

**Author's Note:**

> "Shameless" by Garth Brooks while you're reading!

“This is some straight up bullshit, Sam.”

This is how their night is starting. There was a miscommunication this morning between the two of them—after the alarm clocks failed to go off and everyone was late for work—and it has led to the lack of Advil in the house. No pain meds, no relief. No relief results in a giant five year old sitting in the passenger’s seat, holding his cane in his lap and pouting like the world has deeply wronged him.

“I want you to say the phrase ‘straight up’ one more time.”

“Fuck you.”

“Excellent.”

“Is it so much to ask for one god damn motherfucking night to myself?”

Turn off of Broadway, onto Halsted. They could park near the Whole Foods, but those spaces are taken. Across the street, by the hollowed out remains of the Brown Elephant Thrift Shop, there is one parking spot, but it isn’t enough room for the Impala. Sam doesn’t even attempt to try.

Around the block they go. An excursion for parking turns into a slip into a narrow alley, a U-turn in a Walgreen’s, and a street corner with the word ‘EAT ME’ spray painted on the sidewalk. Won’t be long until someone reports it. Sam counts himself as lucky to have seen it in the first place. Street art is always undervalued. For the entire ten minutes that they search for a parking spot, Dean rambles on about how tonight the newest episode of whatever show is on Tuesday nights premiered and what a dumb night to hold a fundraising gala. Somehow, Sam makes it without screaming.

Just when he thinks he’s in the clear, Dean stops outside the main entrance to the Center.

This is a work event. Sam has to go in there and convince a donor to double his contributions to Sam’s nonprofit. Juana said Sam would be just the right man for the job. She added that taking Dean along might not hurt their case. Of course, that is easier said than done.

“I’m not going,” Dean states to the world, leaning on his cane and looking out at the street. “I don’t want to, so why the fuck am I doing this?”

Nervously, Sam smiles and nods at two men who walk past. He stands in front of Dean and glares. “You came all this way to throw a tantrum at the front door? What are you gonna do, Dean? Stay out here all night because you couldn’t fucking watch television?” It’s cold outside. This is the middle of October and the season has just started to change. Sam knows that Dean’s knee is hurting more than usual with the dip in temperature. But if he could just get the fuck inside the Center, Sam could get a chair for Dean and most of this battle would be won.

Shivering, Dean snips, “Yep. Stayin’ here.”

Sam cuts his losses. He has no time for childish games. “When you decide not to be a fucking wet blanket, come find me inside.” After the snap and the threat, Sam walks past Dean and gives him ten minutes tops. This might be a stuffy, petty gala, but it’s in Boystown and at the Center, which means no expense has been spared in catering or the bar. Sam is not above people offering him free food and booze.

True enough, once he arrives on the third floor, champagne is offered to him. “Thanks,” he sighs to the server and tips two dollars for the welcomed flute. The bar looks well-stocked from Sam’s perspective. Best to take it slow for the moment.

The center is the city’s treasured LGBTQ hub. Three floors and one hundred thousand square feet house an art gallery, office space, gym, computer lab, library, and safe space to roam around in. The third floor is the swankiest one, often reserved for special events like tonight. A spacious theatre is tucked away on the east side of the floor, with a rooftop garden opposite it. Dark hardwood floors reflect the sparkle of twinkle lights hung around the space. Sam finishes his champagne as he scopes out the space.

Five minutes.

A tray swings by, carrying something wrapped in bacon. Sam reaches out and snatches one up, but promptly regrets this decision. It’s an olive stuffed with goat cheese wrapped in prosciutto, not bacon. Ick. Lacking a napkin, Sam swallows what he’s crammed into his mouth without thinking and searches for something else to wash out the taste. Great start so far.

Fifty people fill the space comfortably. Everyone is in a cluster here, a group there. Most of the women are in pant suits, while most of the men are in sweater vests. Sam feels slightly underdressed in his button down and dark pants, but this isn’t his event anyway. Besides, no one expects lawyers to be in line with fashion. Walking by a few people, he picks up traces of their conversations, trying to track down his donor. A glass of red wine is yanked from a passing tray—a far more appropriate drink—and Sam begins to wish he was home. This could’ve been a night on the couch, in his pajamas, listening to Dean narrate an episode of Chopped. Maybe he could have gotten Dean to make a cup of cocoa, with whole milk warmed up on the stove and an Abuelita tablet and whipped cream on top. And maybe, while they lay on the large couch, there could have been fingers carding through his hair and another hand on his ass.

Maybe Dean is getting tired of this.

Sam looks into his glass as his head fills with maybes. They have routines and schedules and mundane details to everyday life. Last week’s big event was going out to buy a can opener because they couldn’t find the old one. When Sam returned from the grocery store with one, it was apparently the wrong kind, and that launched an argument over can openers and if Dean wants something done right he has to do it himself and Sam couldn’t fucking agree more. On Wednesdays Dean bakes sourdough bread; on Fridays he makes banana bread without raisins, because raisins are disgusting. Saturday nights are a toss-up, but they are known to go over to Mrs. Martinez’s so she can see that her rubio and altito are being fed properly—a la manera d’ella, she says.

Ten minutes. Damn.

An announcement is made from the bar that the program will start in twenty minutes. After a few folks chatter and gossip, Sam decides to get to work. The sooner he’s done with this, the sooner he can address the maybes in his head. If Dean is bored, why doesn’t he say something? Is he hunting on the side without Sam knowing? Does he miss the thrill of it, the adrenaline rush?

Does Sam miss that?

“Hi, Brad, I’m Sam Winchester.” Here we go.

Soon enough, Sam finds himself surrounded by others who push into their conversation. These are Brad’s colleagues and friends. They firmly believe that they _are_ Boystown; they symbolize the community and the neighborhood. At first, Sam doesn’t get it. He can’t keep up with their quips, their jokes, and their references to tops and bottoms. For an eternity, he stands there, excluded from a club he never wanted to join. But there are only so many times he can nod without saying anything before someone picks up on his discomfort. Fortunately, it isn’t Brad. Unfortunately, it’s Brad’s partner, Troy.

“Are you bored, Sam?” Troy asks with a sharp smile. “Is the atmosphere too _pink_ for you?” From behind their glasses, the others in their group return the smiles and turn their eyes to Sam.

“…No,” Sam replies. He coughs and takes a sip of wine, which he would gladly trade for something stronger. “Not at all.” This is not the right answer. Troy raises his eyebrows and places his arm around Brad’s waist.

“Do you consider yourself an ally, Sam? Is that why you’re here?”

“Sam works for Juana,” Brad mentions.

“Oh,” Troy snips. “So you’re here to ask for money.”

Fuck.

“Yeah, I am,” Sam replies, curtly. It’s best to be honest. Cut the crap. “Brad,” Sam says, motioning to the man, “has always been a very generous donor. Many of our programs depend on his contributions. And yes, I’m here to ask for more.”

“Do you live in Boystown, Sam?” The way Troy says his name is off putting. It comes out slimy.

“No.”

“Do you work in Boystown?”

“No, I don’t.”

“I see.” Troy’s lips purse and he turns to one of his lackeys, with whom he exchanges a smirk. “Was it confusing arriving here?”

“Parking was.”

“Is our parking… different?”

From the bar, another announcement comes through that the gardens are available for dancing while the program is set up. A DJ is outside, and a few people take up the suggestion. Troy doesn’t miss this opportunity to ask, “Sam is it going to bother you if it’s all queens dancing together? We wouldn’t want you to report back that we’ve made you uncomfortable.”

Brad takes a step away from Troy. “That’s enough.”

Sam doesn’t say a word. He finishes his wine and keeps his mouth shut. Tony Bennett is played for the couples outside, slow dancing despite the chill. These are the last few weeks of somewhat decent weather. Last winter was brutal. Baby will be put in the garage until late March. Mornings will start fifteen minutes earlier so Sam can shovel and salt. The Midwest has the greatest potential to be the safest place on earth with all the salt they put down for winter.

The sound of Troy’s voice cuts through everything. “I’m sick of straight people asking us for money when they could give two shits about our lives,” Troy starts, looking at Brad, but ultimately setting his eyes on Sam. “You work for the place, but that’s nine to five and you clock out completely afterwards so you can go watch the Cubs and open up a beer, isn’t that right?”

There are a million things Sam wants to say here, although he knows that staying quiet is ultimately the best option. But he isn’t a Cubs fan. He isn’t a Sox fan or a Bears fan or a Blackhawks fan. Dean will favor the Sox, but that’s only because he has a hatred for Wrigleyville that burns beyond a simple distaste of traffic. It’s not Sam’s _thing_. He doesn’t care who wins or loses. And Boystown is not the picture perfect Gay Mecca that Troy and these men believe it is. For millions of dollars, these gay men buy up condos and apartments, while they push out disenfranchised, homeless LGBT youth. And at the very same time, as they’re championing to keep the neighborhood “safer,” they solicit sex work from the youth they’re condemning.

There is no perfect neighborhood.

And there is no perfect community. There are only those who help and those who don’t.

The world is filled with people who are content to turn away from the hardships of others.

Sam didn’t grow up like any of them, like anyone in this entire room. He didn’t grow up with rainbow stickers and pins or parades or support groups. Where’s the support group for sleeping with your older brother because he was all you had growing up, and you experimented with other men in college, but you’re not one hundred percent gay, you’re just very attached to a certain person and the things they can do with their mouth? Where’s that group? And while he’s at it, where’s the group for all the feelings in bed he can never express, but somehow Dean picks up on and his fingers touch skin differently than before and all of that doesn’t have a name, but then again it doesn’t really need one?

He grew up the son of John Winchester—other people’s problems were their problems. But Sam doesn’t need this shit.

Tony Bennett cuts out abruptly. Completely out of place, country music comes on, loud enough for the entire third floor to hear.

“What is going on?” Brad mutters, looking over to the DJ and raising his hands. “The hell has gotten into him?”

The DJ is too busy counting twenties slipped to him by a man standing in the center of the makeshift dance floor, leaning on his cane, looking pissed.

Sam shoves his empty glass into Troy’s hands and hurries outside.

The music is turned up.

 “You get one,” Dean snaps and tucks his cane underneath his arm. “The food here sucks.”

“Ask me to dance.”

“No.”

“Do it.”

Of course, Dean doesn’t follow procedure. Instead, he grabs Sam’s waist and yanks him forward, where they begin the most awkward, stumbling dance that the public has ever had the privilege to see. There are grumbles and mutters and swears as they situate their feet and figure out the position of their hands. The song is already halfway over by the time they settle into something that resembles a slow dance.

Clubs two blocks away are blaring house music and pop songs. But here, on the rooftop garden of the Center, next to a Whole Foods, Garth Brooks and his guitar are front and center, drowning out everything. And to his credit, the DJ holds up his end of the deal, chasing away anyone who has the nerve to insist that the song be changed or the volume lowered.

Dean’s grip on Sam is tight.

“I hate this shit.”

“What shit?”

“This…” Dean motions to the people around them, who aren’t dancing, but staring. “I hate dressing up and pretending that we’re something we’re not. I hate spending time doing this.”

“It’s work.”

“So find another job.”

“It was a favor.”

“Fuck favors,” is growled out. “I’m fifty-one years old. My favors are gone. So are yours.”

“…”

“Do you like this shit?”

“I like the dance.”

“So ask me to dance, asshole.”

“You’re supposed to ask me.”

“Well, god damn, Sam. Sometimes _I_ like to be asked.”

“Oh.”

“Can we go home now?”  

“There’s still some song left.”

“Okay, okay, for fuck’s sake.” A hand moves to Sam’s lower back, dangerously close to his ass. “You owe me about… fifty blow jobs.” No one else has dared to join their dance to the legendary Garth Brooks. This gives them room to move, for Dean to pretend like they’re professional ballroom dancers instead of two guys with too long legs and very little rhythm if it doesn’t involve gyrating.

The dance is nice. Feeling Dean’s hands on him is better. But knowing that in forty minutes they will walk through their front door and change into their pajamas and collapse on the couch for the rest of the evening is the best.

Boredom doesn’t play Garth Brooks.

It doesn’t badly croon out the last lines, either, loud and clear.

“Oh, I’m shameless,” Dean wails, “shameless as a man can be. You make a total fool of me. And I just wanted you to knoooow.” If there were dogs around they would be howling. With a great, big, obnoxious smile, Dean takes his hand off Sam’s back and holds it an inch above its intended target. “I’m shameless!” he cries out, and _thwack_! Sam’s ass is grabbed like it is the last ass on earth to grab.

It isn’t a playful grope.

It isn’t even a funny grope.

It’s the kind of ass grabbing that means serious business.

The DJ is thanked and tipped another twenty. Hands are joined and Sam leads the way, back towards the shiny bank of elevators that will take them to the lobby and out the door. Everyone stares.

Dean has the warmest hands. No one would guess it just by looking at him, but he does.

“Oh, wait,” Dean blurts out, tugging Sam back. “Hold on.” Without using his cane, Dean walks up to Troy. Oh no. Oh god. Oh no. Troy is presently slack jawed and stunned. His eyes widen to their maximum the second Dean speaks.

“Here.” From his right pocket, Dean takes out a quarter. He tosses it at Troy’s feet. What he says is uttered in a low tone, dangerous, and grave. “I want you to take this quarter, take it to where the tourists downtown can see you, and I want you to buy yourself a god damned personality. Oh.” Dean stomps his cane on the floor, causing everyone around him to flinch. “With the change leftover, give me a call. I’m with him.”

 

Thirty-two minutes later, parked in the driveway, Sam gives Dean his blowjob.

Two days later, a check arrives on Sam’s desk, signed by Brad, made out for triple what he used to give.

It’s a straight up miracle.

**Author's Note:**

> i sleep now. so tired. ;-; 
> 
> this is for warm fuzzy feels to make up for last night's shower of pain. D8
> 
> this is for wng, who requested the song, and for spnfan, who requested something comforting after the premiere. 
> 
> hope y'all enjoy. <3


End file.
